


The Sentinel

by yuma (yuma_writes)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Attempted Kidnapping, Big Brother Dean, Brotherly Love, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective John, Protectiveness, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-02 10:03:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5244233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuma_writes/pseuds/yuma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Winchester thought he protected his boys. Turned out, someone else took the job...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in _Road Trip With My Brother 5_ , May 2007

It was when John looked away to pull out his journal that he realized Sammy had wandered too far.

"Sammy, come here," he called out sternly to the four-year old scampering to chase someone's little brown and white spaniel across the sandlot. His son was going past the bars, the invisible border he made for Sammy as a compromise for taking him to the park to wait for his brother Dean. 

He couldn't help but smile at the tousled haired boy looking back over his shoulder guiltily with huge brown eyes. He looked a lot like Dean when he was three. Mary had caught their son's fingers deep in the cookie dough, trying to pick out all the butterscotch chips. Dean, when warned not to eat the cookie dough, didn't think it included the chips. Mary scolded Dean; John secretly thought Dean would make one hell of a lawyer some day. He couldn't stop snickering over it even when he climbed into bed with Mary that night.

Sammy obediently went over to the park bench where John sat alone with his research, newspapers marred with circled articles and books surrounding him like a fort. John had been going through the books, intending to update some of his previous entries. Sammy placed his hands on John's knees and balanced on his toes. He stood in-between John' knees and peered up at him expectantly with bright eyes. 

"What did I say?" John reminded Sammy. He fought the urge to smile as his son balanced precariously on his toes so he could see his father on eye level. Sam always wanted to talk to them on eye level; he'd even try to climb sofas, stools, or stacks of books just so he could see. It drove Dean nuts.

"No past the monkeys." Sammy nodded earnestly back at him, twisting chubby fingers on the hem of one of Dean's old t-shirts. The one with the giraffe; the one John had bought Dean the first time they'd gone to the zoo. The blue tee was faded now and the spindly white giraffe appeared more speckled with the shirt's blue. John, when he'd bought for Dean, had thought it looked stupid. Come on, _albino_ giraffes? But Dean always insisted on wearing it every time John took him back to the zoo. Now that shirt was Sammy's. With a momentary pang of regret, John realized he'd never had a chance to take his youngest to the zoo.

"Monkey bars," John corrected, absently brushing back Sammy's hair from his forehead, straightening the small denim jacket over him. Despite it being spring, it was still cool in this part of Nebraska.

"Monkey bars," his son repeated in such a solemn voice John couldn't help but smile finally. Sammy's been doing that a lot recently; repeating everything as if committing it all to memory. He'd even been mimicking the Latin John falteringly repeated to himself at nights. 

"Dean?" Sammy added hopefully, bouncing on the balls of his feet. 

John checked his watch. "Bell just rang, sport. Your brother should be here soon," he told the boy, nodding towards the school the park was behind. 

Sammy brightened, already looking away as the dog yipped and chased around his ankles. He giggled and tried to grab the puppy.

"Don't bother the dog," John warned. Sammy nodded, already distracted, chasing the spaniel again with the other kids in the park. John looked around but didn't see anyone upset over his or her dog currently being the rabbit to a bunch of toddler greyhounds. He watched as Sammy circled around the swings to cut off the dog. The spaniel skidded to a surprised halt and spun sharply to the right, heading for the water fountains. 

John raised an eyebrow. He wondered where Sammy had picked that up from. John grimaced when Sammy stumbled and fell into the sandbox. Sammy didn't cry, just sat up, blinking in surprise as if to say 'how did I get down here?' and then sprang up with an ease John wished he still had.

Keeping one ear out for Sammy's untainted laughter, he glanced back down at the Xeroxed copies he took. There was an interesting reference to the corocotta he hunted a few months back. John flipped back to the old entry. He glanced up. Everyone else tired out from the chase, but Sammy seemed indefatigable.

John scanned the papers in his hands, frowning when he realized he was missing an essential page. Damn, he'd need to head back to the library before it closed. He looked up to call Sammy back and froze.

The playground was still teeming with children; more now with school out.

No Sammy.

John shot up to his feet and scanned the grounds. He strained to hear the dog or his son. Nothing. 

"Sammy?" John ran through the playground. He could hear the pounding in his chest, each face he came across was the wrong face. He sped past the monkey bars, stopping by the hedges that marked the real border of the playground.

"Fire!"

He whipped his head around towards the high, panicked voice and automatically darted for it. John ran towards the sounds, out of the playground, well before his mind made the connection. Dean.

A scuffle, glass breaking and another shout for fire that was starting to get the attention of some parents where his shouting didn't before. John could see Dean's book bag on the ground, its owner grabbing at a cursing lanky, unshaven man, the spaniel yapping at their ankles.

"Dean!" John shouted and the stranger jerked in surprise. He wasn't expecting reinforcements.

"Daddy, he has Sammy!" Dean shouted, still clawing at the man's pant leg, refusing to let go, giving him a swift kick in the shins. Dean yelped when a rough hand took him by surprise, a smack loud enough that John could hear it.

Watching his son fall to the ground ignited something deep inside him; a hot burst of rage that blurred everything. So much so, John wasn't aware he reached them until the satisfying sound of bone against bone filled his ears. The stinging in his fist didn't register. He felt rage spiraling him out of control. He smoothly dodged past the man's defenses, pounding until he could feel the weight of the bastard slump. The haze lifted when he heard a metallic groan and Dean's soft and anxious "Sammy?" filtered through. John staggered to a halt, the body his fist was holding up dropped unceremoniously from numb fingers.

Already, people alerted by Dean's shouting were on the scene; holding down the bastard, others helpfully shouting out that the police were on the way, asking if he needed help, and other inquiries that just swirled to an annoying buzz. John ignored them all; his focus on the four-panel van, its windows cracked from rocks Dean had thrown, the bottoms of Dean's sneakers visible from an open door.

"Dad." Dean, looking back, sounded relieved when John placed a hand on his shoulder. A bruise was already forming on his face that made John's hand tighten over Dean's thin shoulder. Dean didn't say anything though; crab crawling out backwards on his knees until he was out of the van, clutching a tiny denim jacket in his hands. 

John felt his throat close up as he approached the van and crouched into the interior.

"Hey, buddy," he said softly to the blank eyes riveted to his face. "Want to come over here?" He held his breath as his son wordlessly shuffled closer to his hands, tiny body shaking as John pulled him out. He couldn't see any wounds, but before he could examine him further; Sammy pressed his face into his shoulder, small arms trying very hard to wrap around his neck. He placed a hand square on his boy's back, feeling the tiny tremors under his palm. John felt Dean standing closer to him when distant sirens grew louder. Dean looked up at his brother, not even aware he was holding onto a piece of John's pants, the small grip tighter and tighter the longer he examined Sammy. John said nothing though when he felt Dean pressing close to them both and he dropped a hand on top of Dean's head. It just didn't feel like it was close enough.

 

The police came just behind the paramedics. John found himself separated from his boys, herded off to the ambulance, while he was trying to explain to Detective Cranes why he felt compelled to beat the scumbag's face off.

"Sweetie, do you want to tell me where it hurts?" The voice, so sympathetic it made John's teeth ache, floated out from the back of the ambulance with Sammy.

Dean eyes continually glanced over to John as he tentatively described what he saw to the police, how he saw the bastard dragging a kicking and screaming Sammy into the van, slamming the door shut.

"It's okay, we're not going to hurt you. Do you want to tell me your name?"

John looked behind him at the ambulance, cool metal against his back. A thin barrier, thin enough he could hear the well-meaning EMT medic asking his youngest son questions.

"Do you want to just nod your head? Hm?"

A pang twisted in his gut when all he heard was silence. John glanced over to Dean. John was struck by how old his eyes were; far too old any eight-year-old's deserved to be.

Dean was sitting on one of the faded green concrete frogs that dotted the playground. Dean half-heartedly held up a blue icepack to his cheek, but it didn't effectively cover the purpling welt on his right cheek. If it hurt, he didn't show it, though. Dean stared at the back of the ambulance, barely acknowledging the medic checking on him. 

"Apparently, he might be responsible for the disappearances of a dozen other kids these past few months..."

John nodded absently to the detective repeating the facts. He glanced back over to the ambulance again.

"Guy just confessed to everything. He's…" the detective cleared his throat. "He's going to show us where the bodies are."

John clenched his fists against his sides. Bile threatened to come up and he swallowed convulsively until the feeling passed. 

The detective paused, gray eyes shifting over to Dean. His grim mouth briefly smiled at John's son impatiently swinging his feet, bright hazel eyes glued to the open back of the rescue unit, the icepack left dangling from his hand.

"You have a very brave boy, Mr. Winchester."

Startled, John turned back to the officer.

Cranes gestured to Dean with his pen. "If he didn't think to toss those rocks and draw him out, there's no telling what that guy might do or he might've driven off already." The detective appeared impressed. "Not many eight year olds would think to do that, much less what to call out."

"He's a big brother," John murmured, a brief sad, smile flitted across his face. It faded when he realized he still hadn't heard from Sammy the whole time.

"Sweetie, did the bad man…um…" The medic's voice trailed off as if she didn't know how to ask. She sighed too loudly; frustrated but still willing to try although it was clear to John she had no idea how.

"You have to say something," she entreated. "We just want to know if you're hurt anywhere." She paused. "Do you want me to get your daddy?" She tried again in a false bright voice. "Or your mommy?" 

Dean glanced back worriedly and John quietly nodded. Dean dropped the icepack, ducking under one of medic's arms and climbed up the back of the vehicle, his sneakers slipping briefly on the bumper as he climbed in. 

A little surprised at how quickly Dean responded, John wondered if nodding or not would have made a difference.

Cranes was morbidly recounting previous cases like he was letting John, the hero of the hour, in on the big secret. John could only nod, his attention still on the ambulance. It couldn't have been more than a few minutes when Dean finally emerged, Sammy clinging desperately to his brother. Dean shrugged away the medic's hand and struggled off the ambulance by himself, Sammy was wrapped around him like a barnacle, head buried into Dean's shoulder. Dean stumbled off the bumper under the weight, weaving with some difficulty towards John and the police officer.

It would have been funny if John hadn't notice Dean was holding on just as tightly.

"Dean," Sammy hiccuped. "Dean…"

John swallowed hard, hearing his youngest boy whimper Dean's name over and over again with the same reverence John spoke out loud any banishing spell. Dean kept talking quietly to Sammy's ear, one hand hesitantly going up and down Sammy's back. 

"Dad?" Dean appeared unsure, gazing at him for answers. John wished he had some to give. Monsters his boys understood from what John tried to teach them. But people? John had no idea on how to teach them that. Not when he couldn't understand it himself sometimes.

Ignoring Cranes and whatever it was he was saying now, John reached down and carefully pried Sammy away from Dean. Dean shuffled closer, as if he couldn't bear being too far away.

"Hey, Sammy," John said in a low voice. He pressed his jaw against the mop of dark unruly hair. He could feel Sammy burrowing deeper into his hold, his shoulder growing damp.

John hefted his son higher, tilting his head back to look at his youngest. "Sammy?" 

"I didn't mean to go past the monkeys, Daddy" Sammy whispered tearfully into his neck.

John could only hold him tighter. He didn't say anything when Dean pressed close to the pair. A small hand tentatively rested on John's elbow. It was then John realized he was shedding tears of relief into Sammy's hair.


	2. Chapter 2

"That's enough already!" 

John tried to slow his breathing. He could feel a hot flush scalding his face, this time not from the tequila but the echoes of his son's words.

A hand wrapped hard around his right wrist drew John's attention and he realized it was raised. He dumbly looked at his hand; the tendons on the one trying to hold him taut, knuckles white.

The hand curled tighter, another one joining in to try and pull the arm down. John let them lower his arm and the red haze floating before him dissipated into Dean's face. What the hell?

Dean looked anxiously at him, just inches away from his face. John automatically staggered back and Dean tightened his grip on his arm.

"Dad, don't," Dean warned, refusing to let go. His voice was steady, deep and John thought he could hear himself in there.

"What?" John asked, surprised to hear his voice slur. His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton. And the damn room wouldn't stop tilting. 

Dean scrutinized him before he finally let go. "I think you've had enough, Dad." Dean said quietly and glanced down over his shoulder.

John's gaze followed and his mouth soured.

Sam lay on the kitchenette floor, behind Dean, hand on his right cheek, stunned silent. And his eyes, God, his eyes…

John stumbled back further, the backs of his knees striking a chair and he sat down in an awkward pile of limbs. The tequila bottle rattled emptily on the table beside him. It was the same bottle he'd grabbed to erase the image of the ghost he'd hunted. A young mother haunting her husband, looking for her child, not realizing the fetus had died with her when she fell down the stairs, breaking her neck. A young mother who looked so young, looked so desperate for her child, John almost couldn't salt and burn her bones. His hand shook as he held the match. It shook again when he reached for the bottle. 

"Sam," Dean spoke calmly to the thirteen year old, his eyes refusing to tear away from John's shocked expression. "Go to your room, okay?" Dean paused. John could feel his oldest staring at him warily. "I'll be there in a second." 

Sam, without the rebellious air he'd displayed earlier, shakily rose to his feet. Dean spared him a glance; Mary's eyes studying Sam, lingering over the darkening bruise swelling under his right eye. John saw Dean give the mute shadow a gentle nudge towards the room they shared and his gaze stayed on the subdued young teen until the door shut. Even the door sounded defeated. It had none of its loud slamming that usually followed their arguments, which had been increasing in frequency and intensity as Sam grew further away from the trusting child to a young man.

He hadn't meant to drink the whole thing, he should have washed down the memory at a bar, and he should've stayed away until Mary's screams died down. He should have stayed away until his anger fled back to the dark spot he acknowledged only when the evil he hunted was hunting him back. It was an anger he couldn't explain to any of his boys; filled with a bitter hurt of his one love having been taken from him, and where his memory of Mary was forever tainted to a patina of fire and fear. He never should have let his son get to him; should have realized the words came more from adolescent frustration. 

Dean was watching John silently, still standing in front of him, and appearing vaguely uncomfortable but holding his ground. John's hand stung vaguely and John stared at it as if it had a life of its own.

He'd hit Sam. In all these years, he'd never—

A mug was heavily set down on the table. He looked up wearily at it.

"It's still fresh," Dean said emotionlessly. He reached out and pulled away the tequila bottle.

John didn't reach for it. He regarded his older son. To Dean's credit, he didn't flinch but John caught the stiff posture Dean wasn't able to hide.

"I didn't mean to hit Sam, son," The look in Dean's eyes compelled him to the unfamiliar territory of having to explain himself. John straightened up and curled a hand around the cup. It felt hot and its heat felt too much like the sting in his other hand; he pulled his hand back. "Your brother and I—"

"Yeah, Dad. I know." Even Dean sounded exhausted. "But Dad, listen, Sammy is just...you know, not like us. It's PMS for him all month long right now. Sometimes he says stuff he doesn't really mean."

John shook his bed and leaned back in his seat. His head pounded. "You weren't like this when you were his age," he grumbled, sparing a glance at him.

Dean shrugged. "That's because I'm different." He flashed a cheeky grin. "One of a kind."

John chuckled sadly, his eyes clouded over. He knew whose fault it was that Dean was different. He took a long drink, heartened to feel the caffeine pulling away the cobwebs in his mind. But Jesus, no matter how big a mouth Sam had on him he hadn't meant to go off like that. He flexed his right hand on his lap, feeling like it was a poor fit.

The coffee mug was refilled and set in front of him with accusation. John noticed even though Dean seemed relaxed, he was still watching him a little too carefully. Dean's green eyes, dark and wary, tracked his every move. He must have put on quite a show of temper. Not that John Winchester didn't have a temper. But damn it, he didn't like losing control like this. 

"Look, Dean I'm—"

"No. It's okay, Dad." Dean was quick to interrupt. He stood there awkwardly for a moment, rocking on his heels before John waved him off. "I'm just gonna check on Sam, okay?"

His eyes followed Dean knocked on the door. He could hear Dean's quiet "It's me." And felt a pang in his chest when even that didn't make Sam open the door until minutes later. Just a crack before Dean slipped in without a backward glance and shut the door behind him.

John emptied the mug in one long guzzle. Idly, he thought he was drinking the tequila the same way. That sobered him up faster than the caffeine did. He set the mug down, stared at the shut door, wanting nothing more than to go in. He knew, however, his presence probably wouldn't be welcomed right now.

But Dean was in there, because Sam let him. Because Dean could reach Sam—when no one else could—not even himself.


	3. Chapter 3

His mouth felt extremely dry, his eyes gritty when he woke. He looked up and worked his jaw, trying to stitch together enough to be a memory.

"How you're doing?" The voice was hushed, seemingly coming out of nowhere in the dark.

John tensed, more due to a shadow solidifying to his left than the whisper. He was painfully aware he was on an unknown bed, his habitual .45 not under his pillow. But no attack came which was just as well since the heaviness sitting on his chest just grew heavier rather than fading away. He turned to see who it was even when the quiet beeps of a cardiac monitor finally registered and told him _where_ he was.

_Dean,_ he recognized the short haircut that was just long enough to not scream 'marine' as Dean would say. Least it was more practical than Sam's.

A moan pulled his attention back to the bed. Sam. 

"What happened?" a groggy voice floated out over Dean's shoulder. The adjacent IV pole John hadn't noticed before swayed. A muffled gasp nearly had John sitting up.

"Hey, hey," Dean hushed. "Where do you think you're going?" The chair creaked as Dean leaned forward, reaching out a hand. A soft whimper and Dean made soothing sounds to the occupant on the bed. 

"Deep breaths, little brother. The stuff they gave you before surgery is probably wearing off now."

_Surgery?_

"S-surgery?" Sam unknowingly echoed. "I don't—" A sharp intake told him memory was flooding back at the same time it did for John.

He could hear the roar of the Gwyglli, the sharp report of his shotgun. 

Dean shouting, Sam screaming, and a shadow darting towards Dean too fast for John to leap past his own salt lines. 

He remembered the creature barreling at him, how his head made a loud crack against a tree. As darkness took over, he heard the beast again, and saw Sam darting past the salt lines, heedless of his own safety, running in front of a stunned brother trying to get up from the ground. 

_Damn it, I told him not to pass the salt lines._ John thought he'd drilled it to the seventeen year old enough without needing to tell him again before this hunt. He tried to clench his hands only to have the left hand spasm and that was when he noticed the snow-white bandages.

"The Gwyglli!" Sam blurted out. "Dad—"

"Where are you going?" Dean rose to his feet, stopping Sam from getting up with careful hands on his shoulders. "Dad's right here. See?" Dean motioned to the bed behind him. 

Dean was leaning towards the light over Sam's head. His features now highlighted as he looked across to John's bed. John examined his oldest son from afar. Dean made no sign he was aware of the scrutiny, his attention solely focused on Sam. A butterfly bandage on his head, white gauze gloving his right hand, John wondered if Dean felt like he appeared. 

"Is Dad okay?"

"Dad has a concussion. Nicked an artery on his leg," Dean told Sam in a steady voice. "Doctor said he'll need to stay off that leg for a few weeks."

Something like a cross between a snort and a cough sounded out. "Like that's gonna happen," Sam rasped. 

John scoffed to himself in agreement. 

"You, on the other hand," Dean sat down on the edge of Sam's bed, blocking John's view of his youngest completely. "Made a lousy scratching post for Fido."

"Kitty," Sam mumbled.

"Eh?"

"Scratching posts are for cats, not dogs." John was glad to hear Sam's voice growing stronger.

"Well, thank you, Einstein for the clarification," Dean drawled. John could imagine the smirk on Dean's face. He was becoming more like Mary every day. John wasn't sure when that started. "You still made a lousy scratching post." 

"Jerk."

"Bitch," Dean returned cheerfully. Abruptly, his voice changed. "And when you get out of here, I am _so_ going to kick your ass."

"Huh?" Sam sounded as surprised as John felt with the sudden turnabout, "What did I do?"

Making a show of getting up, smoothing out the blankets, Dean was silent.

"Dean?" Now it was Sam who sounded worried. 

With a sigh, Dean sat down heavily on the plastic chair in-between the two beds.

"What the hell do you think you were doing back there, Sam?" Dean's voice thinned, the chair creaking as he leaned forward. "Huh? Did you listen to anything Dad was telling you before the hunt?"

_Don't cross the salt lines_ , John thought. His own mouth pressed into a grim line. It was their only protection, the only thing that kept those beasts back. He never should've taken Sam with them. Dean had argued that they didn't need three; that Sam had never dealt with such a creature before, it was fine just the two of them. All the more reason John thought Sam needed to be out there. To learn. To get that experience.

"Sam. What. Did. Dad. Tell. You?" Dean grounded out.

"Don't cross the salt lines," Sam mumbled.

Dean exhaled harshly. "And what did you do?"

"Crossed the salt lines," Sam sighed out and Dean shot to his feet. John could see Dean, shrouded in the shadows in the back of the room, pacing in front of Sam's bed.

"Damn it, Sam. There was a reason for—"

"Dean, it was heading for you and Dad," Sam argued. John mentally shook his head. Sam shouldn't have been distracted. He should've kept going with his share of the incantation.

"Dude. Hello? Salt lines!"

"So they can't _physically_ come near you!" Sam heatedly pointed out. "But what about what they throw at you? Does the word fire-breathing mean _anything_ to you?"

"And what were _you_ going to do?" Dean accused. "Last I checked, you weren't born with a nice coat of asbestos."

"But they were—I mean…You and Dad…" Sam trailed off helplessly. "You were in trouble," he mumbled.

Dean didn't sound impressed, but Sam's weak explanation deflated him. Dean didn't come any closer as he sighed again, hand running through his hair, unintentionally imitating John. "Damn it, if I didn't yank you back, or was a second too late, you would have…" Dean couldn't finish.

_You would have burned_. John's breathing hitched and he closed his eyes to the horrifying image of losing one more member of his family to flames.

Sam made the connection as well and he fell silent.

Dean walked back towards Sam's bed but stopped just shy of the light. "Look, it's not that I don't appreciate the rescue, but next time, leave the Superman stuff for me and Dad? Okay?"

"So what does that make me?" Sam grumbled. "Clark Kent?"

"Actually, I was thinking more towards Lois Lane," Dean snickered. He chuckled at Sam's grumbling. Dean finally drew closer, pouring water from the nearby pitcher. The quiet sips told John Sam was at least okay enough for liquids. Small favors.

"Dean?" Sam sounded hesitant. "How's your hand?"

John could hear the shrug in Dean's voice. "Second degree," he said casually. "You'll probably need to do laundry for me the next two weeks."

"You wish," Sam laughed weakly. "I'm not touching your dirty underwear."

"Ingrate," Dean muttered half-heartedly. He settled back down on the edge of the bed. "Why don't you get some sleep?" Reading Sam's hesitation, Dean added, "I'll be right here. And Dad's right over there, too." Out of the corner of his eye, John could see Dean pulling up the covers for Sam.

"I hate hospitals," Sam said sleepily.

"Right there with you on that one." Dean patted Sam's shoulder. "Want me to hold your hand, Lois?"

"Shut up."

John lay there, listening to Dean soft murmurs to his younger brother. He caught snatches of "we're all okay" and "I'll be right here" Even he found his son's words reassuring and finally released the tension across his back he wasn't even aware of. His boys were both safe, right here.

"Dad is _so_ going to ream my ass," Sam yawned.

A chuckle. "Serves you right," Dean returned with such affection, John smiled to himself. "Get some sleep, Sam."

"Glad you're okay," Sam mumbled before his breathing slowed to sleep.

John was slipping further into sleep himself, knowing full well Dean was on watch, knew Dean had probably found a way to put up wards. He allowed himself the luxury of true rest, nearly missing Dean's words, soft as if a prayer.

"Me, too, Sammy."


	4. Chapter 4

John didn't mean to follow Dean but after spying Sam coming out of a different motel room—argument or no argument he still wanted to know where his boy laid his head—he followed the Impala he'd just given Dean. Neither of them admitting it was a consolation prize. The boys headed out for the bus depot, obviously choosing the pre-dawn hours to avoid him. But John wasn't sleeping much, fuming over Sam's revelation of his full ride, constantly jerking out of sleep hearing Dean unsuccessfully sneaking back in their motel room, smelling like cigarettes and alcohol. Five days of him pretending Dean wasn't staying away, Dean wasn't venting out his frustrations in some bar, and that he wasn't worried where Sam was. Five days Dean avoided mentioning Sam's name and pretending John's words for Sam to stay gone didn't hang heavily between them.

They were leaning on the car, Dean by the driver's door, hands shoved deep into his pockets. Sam, head bowed, sat on the hood, his duffel sitting by his feet.

John wished he'd parked closer, but he didn't dare risk the chance of either boy spotting his truck in the lot across the station.

The two didn't appear to be in deep conversation, an occasional head bob or shrug to whatever the other were saying, their eyes elsewhere. They looked up finally when the PA announced the bus to Palo Alto was leaving in ten minutes. 

John swallowed back the sourness that sprung up. He looked at his two boys. He didn't know when he could no longer pick up his boy and elicit a giggle of pure joy from him. John remained where he was, watching Dean straightening and standing in front of Sam. And wished he was there as well; he just didn't know what he would say or do.

His youngest nodded to whatever Dean was saying. Knowing Dean, John suspected it was some last minute instructions and he very much doubt the words 'rock salt' and 'spells' were in the conversation.

Sam finally looked up, eye level to Dean. John could see his back slumped to a slouch. Even from here, he could see the weariness on both their faces. He curled his hands around the wheel. 

Dean stared steadily at Sam. Abruptly, he reached forward, his hand around the back of Sam's neck and yanked him forward. Caught off guard, Sam slid partially off the hood and fell into Dean's fierce embrace. Dean wrapped his arms around Sam's head, his face hidden into Dean's shoulder, and Dean's head bowed over him. It echoed too much of when Sam was eight and had gotten separated from Dean during a training out in the woods. Dean didn't even bother to hike back for help. He'd stayed for four hours until they were reunited again in front of the car. Before John even had a chance to scold Sam about panicking and getting himself lost, Dean engulfed him with his arms the moment he saw Sam. Then proceeded to lecture him on the very thing John was about to.

Sam's hands slowly came up behind Dean's back. Pretty soon, he was gripping the back of Dean's jacket so tight his arms shook, nodding to whatever Dean was whispering furiously into his ear. Dean straightened, separating with a sound clap on Sam's shoulders. Dean made a big show of grabbing Sam's duffel, herding Sam to the bus with the other hand.

"Sam," John rasped gruffly into the truck compartment. The name sounded hollow. He watched Dean slip an envelope, too full that it needed a rubber band around its bulging middle, into the duffel bag before Sam turned around to get his bag.

_All you have to do is ask_ , John thought, wishing Dean could read his thoughts, ask Sam to stay. Because Sam would. If Dean asked. Because it was Dean. Even if it only for a while until the craving for normalcy returned again. Long enough so John could reach Sam, show him how hunting was a part of his life, that wanting, needing normalcy wasn't going to make all the monsters not be out there. 

But he didn't. Sam stood at the bus door until Dean gave him a light push towards the steps. Sam looked long and hard before he turned around, entering the bus, the doors closing with a loud hiss John actually tensed for a moment.

_There's still time to call him back_ , John thought. He didn't know who he was trying to convince—Dean or himself as he glared at his hands clenching and unclenching around the wheel. He watched the bus pull back, making the slow turn out to the interstate. This was it. He could hit his horn, cut off the bus, and haul Sam out of there. But he couldn't. The last words they'd said to each other were stuck in his throat. His body refused to move. He could only watch Dean give Sam a short wave through the window then turn towards the car. Moments later though, when the bus was further away, Dean turned back around, watching the bus shrink to a spot even John couldn't see anymore in the heat waves rising up from the ground like fire.

Dean kept on watching until he finally turned back around and slipped into the car. The engine didn't purr immediately, left idling in the depot still too early to be bustling with people.

"Bye Sammy," John whispered when the Impala finally pulled away.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for season one and beginning of two.

He was definitely not putting _this_ in his journal.

John sat on a gurney; grateful he was curtained off from the rest of the ER, making it easier to wallow in self-disgust.

Black dog; it wasn't even an adult. Just one out of four pups in a nest abandoned after he'd killed their mother. But he was distracted. And he knew better than to go on a hunt distracted. But he did it anyway and all he got was a bunch of stitches in his back; the cuts too deep and too far for him to do it himself. And the nest was still out there.

Stitches pulling in his back forced John to stay where he was; least for the night. Rest up, give the stitches a chance to heal or at least not pull so tight on him when he lifted his shotgun. Just one night and Michael Anthony could slip back out to hunt the pack.

He closed his eyes, not truly sleeping, keeping his ears open for anything out of place. 

"Well, here we are, Mr. Webber. Shouldn't be more than an hour to get the CT results back."

John frowned to himself when a weary voice gave his thanks. He turned his head, eying the white curtain that served as a partition. A tall shadow dropped heavily into the chair by the newest gurney. The newcomer shifted, the seat creaking and groaning, until he finally settled down, half-slumped into the chair, curtain shadowed hands covering his face.

John narrowed his eyes. The speaker was soft-spoken, but not by nature. He could tell exhaustion, worry, and an unidentifiable emotion robbed the voice's power. But even though it was a shade of itself, a nagging suspicion in his mind whispered that it was familiar. 

"Dude, this is the last time I'm letting you fill those applications out," a deeper voice groaned out from the gurney. The shadow jerked and sat up.

"You're awake." The relief in the voice was palpable.

John closed his eyes. It was just as he feared. He was tempted to leave, stitches be damned. He painfully sat up when Dean's voice grumbled out, barely audible beyond the area.

"Seriously, dude," Dean rasped out. " _Warren_ Webber? _Potsie?_ " Another shadow shakily sat up on the gurney. He grunted as he pushes himself up on the elbows. "Crap, to think that was the runt of the litter."

John frowned, listening to Dean hiss in pain as he maneuvered his body to sit up higher. John lay back, looking intently at the curtain. He wished he could chance going around it. See for himself they were all right.

"What are you doing? Lie down, man," Sam pushed Dean back down on the bed. "And what's wrong with that name?"

" _Potsie?"_

__"Better than those musician names," Sam snorted.

_What's wrong with those names_ , John thought with a flash of annoyance.

"What's wrong with those names?" Dean demanded. 

John smirked to himself.

"Sooner or later, someone's going to—what are you doing?"

"Leaving," Dean ground out. A brief struggle with the tubing and Dean managed to swivel his legs around. "Where are my boots?"

"In the back seat," Sam returned absently. "Dean, why don't we wait for the x-rays at least?"

"Sam, I'm fine," Dean said, annoyed. "Wrap them up and sleep it off, it'll be fine."

"Let's just be sure." John narrowed his eyes, picking up on the shakiness in the voice Sam wasn't able to hide completely. "It slammed into you pretty hard. There could be internal injuries or—"

"We've had a lot worse before and didn't need the hospital then. Come on, we can pick up supplies and do this ourselves..." Dean's shadow began to list. Sam immediately came over, ducked under his shoulder, propping his brother up. Their shadows merged at that moment into a solid mass, breaking apart when Dean pushed Sam aside.

"Dean, what's wrong? Are you okay? I'll get the nurse—" Sam yelped when an arm reached over, grabbing him by the shoulder, whirling him around. 

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Sam yanked his arm back.

"What's wrong with me? What the hell's wrong with _you_?" Dean snapped.

"What are you talking about?" Sam asked flatly.

"Look, I don't know what's got you so worked up," Dean fumed, "Hell, I couldn't drag _you_ to the hospital last week and it was definitely a hell of a lot worse than this!"

John frowned. He studied the two shadows apart from each other, Sam's shadow tight and contained as he wrapped arms around himself.

"That's different!"

"What's different? Sam—"

"Because it's you, you idiot!" Sam barked back. He then sucked in his breath and took a step back.

Dean didn't make a move towards Sam. He sounded stunned. "…Sam."

"Before…when that black dog jumped you…" John heard a deep breath rattle in the pause. "I saw you grab your chest and I thought…" There was a quaver in Sam's voice and he sat down as if his strength left him. "I thought you might be having a heart attack," he admitted reluctantly.

John closed his eyes. He could hear Sam's message again; choked, the tears audible in his voice, and a determination bordering on irrationality. The same voice that lurked in the back of his mind as he hunted the mother black dog. 

"A heart attack?" Disbelieving. Dean fell silent. "Is that what's this has been all about?"

"What do you mean?"

"This past week. The nightmares. The not eating. You've been walking around like you're checked out. And you've been, I don't know, like watching me, waiting to see if I start ralphing pea soup or spinning my head." He pause, then after in a lower voice. "Don't worry, okay? You'd cured me."

"Sue Ann cured you," Sam whispered, "And now she's dead." 

"Sam, I'm okay. Nothing's going to happen. We went to Nebraska, pulled a fast one over the reaper, and Dean Winchester lives to see another day."

They fell into a silence; too loud to be okay, too loud to be nothing. 

"You're still mad," Sam said slowly as if he didn't want to know.

Rough exhale. "A man _died_ , Sam. I stole somebody's life."

"You mean _I_ stole somebody's life," Sam returned bitterly.

"Sam, I don't blame you." Dean replied immediately.

Sam went on as if he didn't hear him. "I've looked everywhere. Called everyone in Dad's book. I even called _Dad_. And I got nothing. Nothing! If Joshua hadn't called me about that faith healer—"

John sucked in his breath. Exactly why he couldn't come. He couldn't meet up with his boys, bringing the demon right to them. It would see Sam's desperation as clearly as John had heard it in his voicemail. And the demon would approach Sam; a bargain for Dean's life. And Sam would take it without hesitation.

"Tell me this," Dean asked slowly. He cleared his throat. "Did you know? Did you suspect anything?"

"No. Dean, I swear, I didn't know."

Dean was quiet. John had to lean closer to the corner of the curtain. "Would you have taken me there if you _did_ know?"

A sigh and Sam sank lower into the chair. He responded in a barely audible voice. "I don't know. I-I think I would have anyway."

"Damn it," Dean exhaled. "I didn't want this, Sam."

Standing in a rained out gas station in Running Springs, John had stood in the old phone booth, receiver clutched in his hand as he'd gotten the news from Caleb that his boy lived. The same phone he used to called Joshua to tell him about Nebraska. But although Caleb knew the end results, the details had always been sketchy.

"Don't you think I know that? It's just," Sam's voice hitched as if it were painful to speak; hurts to even acknowledge it. "I can't do this alone. I'm not Dad."

"Well, hell, _I'm_ not Dad either." 

"You could be. You could be like Dad, doing it on your own. You did before." 

John leaned his head against the wall, his shoulder all but brushing the curtain. His ears straining as Dean whispered "Maybe I don't want to." And silence fell between them as if all the air was sucked out. 

After Mary. After everything. John had walked the road alone. It had been right for him. But it wasn't right for his boys. Sometimes a man needed a shadow. Even in his low moments, or maybe especially in his low moments when all he could feel was his own heart beating. He'd thought for Sam that shadow was Dean. A protector, a brother who would always be there for him. So that Sammy would always have someone to rely on. To feel safe with. To leap into the back of an ambulance and grab him. 

But in fact, being needed, being relied on, having someone at his shoulder was just as much a salvation for Dean as well. 

Dean's voice came as a shock for Sam and him. "Maybe I like having a snot nosed little brother always chasing after me. Playing Bryan Adams or other feel good emo crap when he thinks I'm too busy napping to notice he's swapped tapes." Dean audibly shrugged, clearing his throat. "It's sort of, you know, predictable." 

"Little?" Sam asked after a moment with some amusement.

"Yeah, well, you used to be. I can still take you down though," Dean groused. 

"Sure, Dean."

"Come here you wannabe yeti so I can beat your sorry..."

Sam's laugh was a relief to hear. "You keep on thinking that if it makes you feel better."

"Makes _me_ feel better? Dude, you're the one who obviously needs to feel better. Wanting to hold hands and stuff just because of a little bitty black puppy dog."

"A dog they should have named Cujo, dude."

"Well, Cujo probably has nest mates somewhere around here and we're not doing any good finding them lying around." Dean grunted, wiggling in the gurney, probably trying to figure out how to get off without jarring his ribs. He threw up his hands. 

"So are you going to help me up or what?"

"No." Sam made no move to stand.

"No? Is that Latin, for 'yes'?"

"You know it's not. We're staying. At least until we see the x-rays." 

His boy went on arguing. But John didn't need to listen to any more; he limped back to the gurney as the words being bantered continued to sail past the thin material. Sam wasn't about to let Dean do anything foolish to risk himself, and Dean would still watch out for his little brother even in bed. Maybe in all the insanity, of walking the line, John had actually inadvertently gotten something right when he'd given Sam to Dean. 

John nudged his bag out from under the chair with his foot so he could bend awkwardly to pick it up, Dean was right. Cujo Junior and the other demon spawn pups needed to be taken care of. He could manage that much at least as give for his boys on his way out of town. 

 

 

It occurred to him Dean looked weary, tired, staying alert out of sheer will. Even pale and barely _not-dead_ in the hospital bed, Dean looked out for his brother, was alert enough to cast a worried look up and down Sam when he first woke. And John realized that look was always there. 

"I want you to watch out for Sammy." 

"Yeah Dad, you know I will."

And inside, John smiled, knowing it to be true. 

Everything in their life led him to believe it.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback are like cookies. I _like_ cookies! LOL.
> 
> Author's Notes: just unearthing a few fics previously printed in fanzines 6 or 7 years ago. I forgot I wrote these. Rereading them was quite a trip through time! LOL


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